


Steadying Storms

by breatheforeverypart



Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [6]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon deviation, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Haymitch attempts to be a father figure, Hurt / Comfort, Johanna Mason has a heart, Major character death - Freeform, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, about dying tributes, briefly, but that's okay, poor Finnick, what else is fan fic for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart
Summary: Finnick is reunited with Johanna after the rescue of the Victors from the Capitol prison.  He is unable to process Annie's death.  Haymitch and Johanna attempt to weather the storm of realization.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Finnick Odair & Other(s), Johanna Mason & Finnick Odair
Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776307
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Steadying Storms

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Clearly, this work deviates from canonical events that take place in the Mockingjay novel. In my AU Annie Cresta is murdered by the Capitol when the Victors are imprisoned. Johanna, Haymitch and Finnick form a sort of family and care for each other during the revolution and after. They are bonded by trauma and their unique experiences in the Games. They remain isolated them from the rest of the population and learn to find comfort and safety in each other.

***

Finnick swayed on his feet. He yearned for the ocean, but his body remained deep underground. The woman lay on the gurney. She resembled a starfish plucked from the ocean, drowning on dry land. Her four limbs were secured to the frame with plastic gray bands. Their color matched the drab uniforms of District 13’s medical staff. An irony that Finnick’s old prep team would appreciate. His attention turned to the woman as she groaned. She did not belong here. 

Appearances mattered, Finnick thought. A memory of Snow’s yellowed smile caught his attention. The stench of blood and decaying roses clung to the air. He felt the old man’s fingers brush the nape of his neck. 

Finnick slapped the side of his head, catching his ear. Maybe if he struck hard enough, he would forget. Reality slid into focus as he eyed the stranger, still tethered to the gurney. 

Her chest moved with shallow breaths, each rib visible. The woman was half-clothed in a paper pants, her chest covered with surgical drapes. Bruises stamped her torso, leaving no patch of skin uncolored. In the artificial light, she could easily pass for one of the Capitol’s creations. Fear prickled the hair on Finnick’s arms, the woman could be a mutt. A sense of dread drove Finnick to count the tubes jutting out of the woman’s body. 

He counted knots as his hands worked the length of rope over and over. He counted the breaths he remembered taking. His mind drifted between memory and reality. 

The Doctor had given him exercises, things to do to keep himself from doing things. What things, Finnick could not remember. He did know that the impulses were bad. Nurses, whose names he could not recall, tut tutted him and chided his behavior as if he were a small child. 

In some way, Finnick supposed he was a child. Branded with a garish bracelet, he was sentenced to the medical bay. The Doctor said he could not be released until he stopped attacking District 13 staff. He had no memory of hurting staff, who reportedly intervened when Finnick tried to take his own life on numerous occasions. 

Between the morphling and his anguish, time meant nothing. Sometimes a young blonde nurse fed him soup and cleaned the cuts on his hands. She said that he would learn to live with the pain. She said that she knew the Girl on Fire. Finnick did his best to listen to her when she spoke. Her voice soothed the fires raging in his brain. It slowed the impulses that he felt to tear at his skin and sob at the injustice of it all. 

The woman arched her back and moaned. Footsteps thudded past the secluded room. 

Finnick dropped the rope at the unexpected stampede of noise. He twisted the caution-colored bracelet around his wrist. 

Not Annie. The woman was not Annie. She curled her knees to her torso, hissing as she moved. Annie was…the thought stuck in his mind. He stalled, unable to complete the sentence. He did not know where she was, if she was hurt or being tortured because of him. 

Muffled voices, paired with furniture and bodies crashed against the adjoining wall. The thud of a body combined with screaming triggered a chain of events that Finnick could not comprehend. 

He slipped into his mind, muscular hands clamped over his ears. Behind his eyes, all Finnick could see were the dead. Dozens of children, wailing in pain, begging him to save them, to end the misery of the Games. Their faces blurred as their voices pounded against his skull. Finnick rocked violently, slamming his head into the concrete until unconsciousness finally claimed him. 

***

“Is she dead?” Someone asked, their voice hoarse. 

“No.” A familiar man spoke from the space above his head. “She would be, if Boggs hadn’t knocked him out.” 

“Well, that would’ve been a shame.” A raspy laugh followed the sarcastic comment. “Considering, our willingness to sacrifice our stupid lives for her.” 

Finnick blinked in the darkened space. His head lay in a warm lap. Bones jutted into his neck, but he craved the contact. Whoever they were, they felt safe. Safe was rare. The arena was dark, how many had died today? He waited a beat for the sound of canons or the first notes of the anthem to play, but the disembodied voices above him continued to talk. 

His limbs were heavy with sleep, like he had several hours to rest. Unusual. Rest in the arena was not normal. Adrenaline poured into his bloodstream. Who was keeping watch? His allies? Blindly, he felt around for his trident.

Clumsily he rolled to the floor. His head throbbed and the scent of blood hung in the air. 

Panic began to build when he could not locate a weapon. He’d settle for anything. He couldn’t protect her if he was dead. He needed something, anything. The hard surfaces of District 13 morphed into the arenas of both his games. His hands pinned mutated flesh against a slippery jungle floor. 

***

“Odair.” 

Detained again. Awareness crashed into him like an unpleasant wave. Finnick had become familiar with this particular position. 

He tested the restraints. The familiar voice growled near his ear. “Are you done boy? You did a number on your head.” 

Finnick nodded and lost control of his knees as the pain blinded him momentarily. 

The man hoisted him under the armpits and dragged him to the gurney. “Stay here, I’m gonna get that cleaned.” Dirty blond hair obscured the man’s crooked nose, but Finnick could identify the sour breath. Haymitch. 

“Hm.” An angry ghost of a woman peered down at him. Her brown eyes narrowed, something like grief flashing across her face. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type Haymitch.” The voice croaked, oxygen tubing awkwardly hanging off one of her ears. 

“Fuck off, Mason.” Haymitch’s hands tilted Finnick’s head against the angled headboard of the bed. 

Johanna. Finnick sucked in a breath. His eyes widened in recognition. “Jo.” He begged, barely audible. 

“He speaks.” She remarked, avoiding his gaze. “I thought maybe you’d gone crazy on me. This place is as fucked up as the Capitol.” 

Haymitch huffed. “He’s no crazier than the rest of us.” He examined the label of a foul-smelling antiseptic. The look he was giving the bottle turned to longing. “Think I’d die if I drank this?” 

Johanna squinted at the writing. “With our luck, probably not. 13 is a dry district? Looks like it takes a war to get you sober, old man.” 

He shrugged and began dabbing at Finnick’s face. “If anything, I need more liquor after what you all are putting me through.” His words betrayed a compassion and sentimentality that Finnick thought to be impossible. 

“Jo.” He repeated, trying to turn from the stinging solution on his forehead. 

The woman known as Johanna Mason sighed and met his eyes. “What.” 

Finnick tugged at the hand she’d planted on the skinny mattress for balance. He pulled her down to the bed. 

She stared at his fingers for a long moment before allowing herself to be led to a seated position. “Fine. I know what you want.” 

With shaky hands, Haymitch cut a length of gauzy bandages. “He knows.” He rubbed a glob of ointment on the gnarled skin before applying the wad of cloth. “Well, he did know. Who knows after that concussion.” Haymitch looked apologetically at Finnick. “Wasn’t quite right before.” 

Finnick knew he was crazy. He tried to shoot Haymitch a dirty look, but his head pounded when he moved too quickly. 

Haymitch had been trying to kill the crazy with drink. Johanna wanted to extinguish the world in her anger. He knew the Girl on Fire was crazy too. How could you play the Games and not be crazy? 

Johanna rolled her eyes. “You don’t say.” She tilted her bald and scarred head at the older mentor. 

Finnick’s voice wobbled as he tried to harness her attention. “Jo.” The tone betraying the tenuous relationship with reality that he was struggling to maintain. 

She laced her fingers tightly with his. “Finn, she’s gone. I’m sorry.” 

***

She yanked the tubing from naked head and forced herself to breath. The oxygen tickled her cheek as she tossed it to the floor. A couple of scabs on her scalp prickled with fresh blood. Small price to pay to be free of the restrictive medical equipment. Johanna rubbed at her face with such rigor that she certainly left marks. No tears. Crying betrayed confidence. 

Finnick writhed on the mattress, guttural sobs catching in his throat. 

Haymitch stumbled back into the far wall of the small room. 

Johanna straddled the older Victor, struggling to pin him to the bed. Even at her most fit, she was far from a physical match to Odair’s body. 

“Haymitch!” She barked. 

Shaking something dark and dangerous from his mind, the oldest Victor lurched towards the gurney. He easily lifted the weakened man from District 4 and gathered him in a nonconsensual hug. 

Finnick gasped and headbutted Haymitch. The older man blurted a string of creative curses, but maintained his grip. 

“Finn, listen to me.” Johanna demanded, more than a hint of desperation in her voice. 

Finnick squirmed, but his gaze flicked to Johanna’ face as it swayed above him. 

“Keep talking.” Haymitch ordered, sweat beading at his brow. 

Johanna looked at him dumbly, still sitting on Finnick’s abdomen. “About what?” 

“Anything!” He shouted in frustration, tightening his hold on Finnick’s arms. 

Johanna blurted whatever came into her head. Finnick whimpered. “We had adjoining cells in the Capitol. Did you know that Finn? Peeta’s crazy too. He tried to kill her, Haymitch says he didn’t quite manage it.” She babbled, pausing to refill her lungs with stale District 13 air. 

Finnick whimpered, tears gathering in his eyes. “Annie.” 

“Yeah.” Johanna bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Annie’s dead. She went quick. She didn’t know anything. They ended it fast.” She lied. 

Haymitch stared at her, slack-jawed. Typically, her candor shocked people, but Johanna didn’t think she could surprise Haymitch. Shame snaked through her belly, threatening to choke the words in her throat. 

Johanna threatened him with a shake of her head. Haymitch had seen the footage from the Victors cells in the Tribute Center. Annie had been alive. Johanna spoke to her, long after she ceased reciprocating communication. Annie had been alive and tortured alongside Johanna, Peeta and Enobaria. 

The rescue operation left a hazy imprint in Johanna’s memory. Some nightmares told her that Annie was alive as the rebels infiltrated the Capitol. Other nightmares left her sobbing on the floor of her cell, ankle deep in tepid water screaming for Annie. The circumstances were murky, but the love of Finnick’s life remained dead. 

“You promised.” Finnick was saying. Johanna’s mind realigned with her broken body. She felt Haymitch staring at her. His look held pity, something Johanna abhorred and she bristled. 

“No.” She snapped. How dare he refer to the pact they’d made before the Quarter Quell. They had promised to make death quick if there was no other way out. “This isn’t the end Finn. We’re not in the arena anymore.” Johanna’s hoarse voice softened slightly. 

Fresh tears traced the dried tracks on Finnick’s face. “Doesn’t matter. Jo, the Games will never be over.” 

Haymitch’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. He pressed his chin to the top of Finnick’s head in a parental gesture. Johanna would have teased him if she wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown herself. 

“Annie’s gone.” Johanna repeated, she wiped a thumb at the corner of his eye catching a couple of tears. He leaned into her touch, but his attention wavered. “But it’s over, Finn. She’s done fighting.” 

Finnick rocked in Haymitch’s arms, his sobs gradually slowing. Johanna repeated her lies until Finnick drifted into an uneasy sleep. The lies about peace and death reverberated long after Haymitch began to snore from his position spooning the younger Victor. 

Johanna turned her own words over and over in her mind until she started to believe the lies she’d spun about Annie’s death. Finnick mumbled and twitched in his sleep, his hands wringing the length of rope. She resisted an impulse to brush his hair away from the bandage. Love was weird. Johanna had lost her blood family and forged a fucked-up collection of misfits. An old alcoholic and suicidal Victor lay curled against one another on her hospital bed, and she loved them. 

Eventually she plugged herself back into the morphling that hung from the metal stand alongside the bed. The drug flooded through her arm, a cool balm to her racing brain and curled herself at the foot of the gurney. She hallucinated nightmarish scenes of water, blood, concreted cells and the red-haired Victor from District 4 screaming for a man who had lost his mind.


End file.
